


On Due Reflection

by captainshellhead, vibraniumstark



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Avengers Vol. 4 (2010), Bad Touch, Evil Alternate Dimension, Fix-It, M/M, Multiverse, Stony Trumps Hate 2017, Tony Stark Hates Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 19:44:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13348212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainshellhead/pseuds/captainshellhead, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vibraniumstark/pseuds/vibraniumstark
Summary: Fed up with secrets, with the Illuminati between them, Steve and Tony aren't on the best of terms. A chance encounter with an alternate reality's versions of themselves sets things back on the right path.





	On Due Reflection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [faite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faite/gifts).



> Our second of three Stony Trumps Hate fills: Mirror-verse Steve/Tony! Thank god all of our prompters are our good and kind friends, because boy howdy are we making them wait haha

The Avengers were used to dealing with the strange and unusual. Sometimes that meant dealing with horrible, looming threats, villainous organizations with no regard for bystanders or casualties, monsters and demons and world eaters.

And sometimes, that meant running damage control while a magical pyrotechnics show fizzled itself out.

“Do I even have to say it?” Tony wondered aloud. This particular magical anomaly was caused by the manifestation of some poor kid’s power. They clearly had no idea what was happening, and things had spiraled out of control before anyone had been able to calm them down. It reminded him of Wanda’s powers, a little. These orbs of light were self-multiplying, though, getting smaller and smaller every time they divided until they eventually fizzled on their own. That itself wouldn’t have been a problem, except that they blasted a sizeable chunk out of anything they touched. The Avengers were doing their best to contain the damage until they shrunk away into nothing.

“Stop complaining and pay attention,” Steve snapped.

Tony bit his cheek, levity dying on his lips. So.  
Steve was still angry with him. In fact, it seemed the more time that passed since what Tony had begun mentally referring to as the Infinity Gem Incident, the more angry Steve grew. It was a bullheaded stubbornness Tony was used to, though his biting words took on a bit more edge than usual. Steve shot Tony a cold look and then turned back to double-check that there were no curious onlookers still lingering within range.

Tony ducked his head and shut his mouth. He could do that, at least, and then maybe Steve would forgive him. He returned his attention to keeping the sky clear of falling debris as little pebbles of lightning seared through the old brownstones.

He was lucky that Steve was willing to work with him at all. After he’d learned that Tony had hidden the Illuminati from him for so long, he’d been furious. He’d kicked Tony from the Avengers, then, but even he could admit that Iron Man was a valuable asset, and Steve was, above all, a good man. He wouldn’t risk lives for his grudge...but he wouldn’t be happy about it, either.

Well, that was fine. Tony could deal with a few cold glares. He told himself, Steve was hardly the first person to grow to hate him, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last. Tony pretended not to notice as Carol and Jan shared a look as they weaved through the sky.

One of the orbs sizzled furiously, like a lump of butter dropped into a hot pan, and exploded in a snap of light. Tony cut the power in his right boot, letting gravity drag him out of the path of the hissing shower of orbs.

 “Careful, they’re—Cap!” Another one of the sizzling orbs was right behind him, too close. Cap instinctively twisted to bring up his shield.

He wasn’t fast enough. The orb burst in a frenzy of light, searing fireflies escaping an overfull jar, too fast for him to react.

It punched through him the same way it did the walls of the brownstones, in a flash of burning light. Instead of carving a hole in him, his whole body seemed to jerk, fizzling out like the light of the orbs, fading.

In an instant, he was gone.

 

 

 

Carol was already rocketing toward where Steve had been standing before Tony could call out to her, energy streaming around her like a comet tail. She kicked up chunks of asphalt as she landed in the empty space on the street. They couldn’t afford to be distracted. Tony turned back to what he was doing, clearing rubble, counting heads to make sure no one else got too close to the damn things.

It took three minutes and fourteen seconds before the last orb dimmed and blinked out of existence. Tony landed on the other end of the street. Carol stood uncertainty, in the exact spot Steve had been standing minutes earlier.  
Though he was still, his mind was reeling. Steve couldn’t be dead. Things like this didn’t kill Steve Rogers. No, he had to have been sent somewhere. Teleported? The orbs had registered strangely on his sensors, not like any kind of magic he was familiar with. Stephen might be able to recognize it. He could send him the data, find Steve, and—

A wave of heat washed over Tony from behind, and when he turned, Steve was there, a few feet away, blinking the light from his eyes.

Tony’s shoulders sagged in relief as a relieved shout rose up behind him, calling Steve’s name. The knot in his throat loosened at the sight of him, the traitorous part of him that feared the worst settled in an instant.

“Thank god, Steve. Are you all right?” he asked.

Steve gave him a peculiar look, eyes narrowed, teeth grit. His fists were clenched at his sides. Which, yes, Steve was angry with him, but at least in public he kept things professional. This...this was an entire new level of anger, hatred so blatantly spread on his face that it nearly shocked Tony to take a step back.

  
Was Steve this angry with him, for not watching his back like he should have been? Tony wouldn’t blame him, the last tendrils of self-loathing were still coiling in his stomach, not quite brushed away along with the relief of seeing Steve safe. He’d been sloppy, and Steve could have been seriously hurt, or... worse. If Steve couldn’t rely on him to cover his back, at least, then what business did Tony have on the team at all—

“Armor override: Stark, forty-seven, twelve,” Steve said. This time, Tony did take a step back, confused. That was an old code—at least three years old—and Steve knew that. Steve shook his head angrily, and tried again: “Armor override: Twenty-two, Nomad.”

Tony didn’t recognize that code. He’d never used it, not as far as he could remember. He tried another code, one Tony had only ever used on his garage keypad, and another Tony didn’t recognize.

  
“What are you doing?” Tony asked, genuine bafflement in his voice. It might have been a mistake, because the sound of his voice set Steve’s expression to harden again. Steve growled, teeth clenched so hard they might crack.

“Fuck it,” Steve spat, and he lunged at him. Before Tony could even react Steve had rammed his fingers into the junction between Tony’s helmet and his neck, yanking so hard that the plating cracked. Tony gasped, not enough time to react, but enough time to feel a jolt of confusion, fear.The fragmented edge of the helmet sliced into his neck as Steve ripped it off of him, the blood sticky on his collar. The weight of Steve’s body slamming into him sent him sprawling back onto the concrete. His head cracked against the ground as the helmet clattered beside him, and Tony saw stars.

Steve hauled a fist back, one hand holding him down, and Tony had a hysterical moment of deja vu as he squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself for the hit.

Tony didn’t see, but _felt_ the heat radiating off of Carol as she ripped Steve off of him, slamming him so hard to the ground a few feet away that he felt it through the concrete. He heard Steve grunt in pain. Steve was no match for Carol. It would...yeah, she had it handled. The dying whir of his helmet sang in his ear. Steve had severed the helmet’s connection to its power source, and from the corner of his eye he saw the lights of the HUD flicker and die.

Fuck, his head hurt.

“Hey! Hey, look at me!” Jan said. Tony blinked, vision spinning. She had landed on the ground next to him, one warm hand pressed to his cheek, the other pressing a balled-up scarf to the cut on his neck. She’d have to throw it away, he thought. “Tony, are you okay?”

“...I don’t think that’s Steve,” Tony said. “Probably.”

Jan huffed a small laugh, relieved. “Seems like,” she said. She glanced toward Carol, then back to him, “Come on, let’s get you looked at. Can you sit up?”

That sounded incredibly unappealing, but he was willing to try if it would get the frown off Jan’s face. He tilted his head a little. Carol had her knee pressed into Steve’s back, his arms twisted roughly behind him. Steve didn’t struggle. He was looking directly at Tony, mouth twisted into a grimace, gaze boring into him.

No, Tony thought, an involuntary shudder wracking him. That definitely wasn’t his Steve.

 

 

The bolt struck Steve in the chest, and he was momentarily blinded. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself to slam into the truck parked behind him. Instead he hit something else, and the sound of shattering ceramic pierced an otherwise eerie silence.

Steve was lying on his back in a dimly lit hallway, staring up at the ceiling from a bed of crumpled flowers, splinted table, and a shattered vase. It looked like Avengers Tower, but one glance down the hallway told him that it wasn’t _his_ Avengers Tower. The layout was all wrong, and the walls were painted a different color. He balled his fists and pushed himself up off the carpet, not hardwood. Pottery chips clicked dully against one another on the soft surface.

Pounding footsteps drew his attention to the other end of the hallway just in time to watch a sock-clad Tony Stark skid around the corner, stopping just short of where Steve was standing. Tony froze the moment he spotted him, lips parted in surprise, and then flinched back a step as though he’d expected Steve to lunge at him. The curiosity that drew him to investigate the noise was gone from his face in an instant. He eyed Steve nervously, shrinking in on himself.

This Tony might have been younger, or it may have just been because he was clean-shaven. His hair was longer than his world’s Tony, curling at the edges. His eyes were wild, and undeniably wary.

Steve held his hands apart, placating, and Tony’s eyebrows furrowed. Steve could see the moment the gears started turning, the same look stealing over him that he’d seen on his own Tony a thousand times. After a moment he relaxed, a bit of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

“You’re not Captain Rogers?” he asked, though by his tone he already suspected the answer.

“...In a sense,” Steve said.

He eyed Steve curiously, like he was a puzzle to take apart. He tip-toed around the shards of broken vase, tip-toed around Steve far more cautiously, sizing him up. "In a sense," Tony repeated plainly, though he didn't ask Steve to explain himself. Steve wondered if he was used to those sorts of answers, avoidances and half-truths. His Tony spoke both like a second tongue.

"I'm sorry for bursting in like this," Steve said, settling for politeness while he found his bearings. This Tony shrugged, toed at one of the crushed flowers with disinterest as though to show how little stake he had in the matter. Steve thought, absurdly, that this Tony’s eyelashes were longer than the one from his world.

"How did you get inside?" Tony asked. His words were casual, but his shoulders were tense. There was a fake, polite smile on his lips, like the ones he shared with the press.

“I didn’t,” Steve said. Tony's brow furrowed as he continued, “I was hit with something during a fight. It transported me here.”

Tony’s smile faltered a little. “Transported?”

“Magic,” Steve confirmed.

“Oh,” Tony said. He chewed his lip thoughtfully, the disappointment clear on his face for a moment. He recovered quickly and leaned forward to brush his hands down Steve’s sleeves. “Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you?”

“No, I’m all right,” Steve said. Tony smiled up at him through his eyelashes as he straightened Steve’s sleeves. Steve cleared his throat “Are...are _you_? You seem a bit...nervous?”

“Ah,” Tony said. He glanced down at his sock-clad feet. “No, I’m...I mean, yeah, I’m okay,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Tony?” Steve asked. Tony flinched at his name, glancing up quickly. Then he laughed at himself, rueful, and shook his head again.

“Sorry. Not used to you calling me that,” he said. “We don’t...see eye to eye. The other Captain and I, I mean.” Steve could relate to that. Tony must have seen it in his expression, because he continued on, emboldened, “He’s… he thinks he’s doing the right thing. He really does believe that.”

Steve took in the way Tony was standing, the way he refused to meet his eyes, shrugging the comment off like it was nothing to worry about. Tony didn’t say anything else, but Steve could fill in the blanks.

“Is he here?” Steve asked. Tony shook his head.

“He comes by sometimes,” Tony said. “Not often. Mostly if he needs something. Anyway, what are you going to do now?”

The question felt like a deflection, but this Tony looked eager to listen, so Steve indulged him.

“Do you think you can help me get home?” he asked. This wasn’t his Tony, but Steve had yet to meet a Stark who couldn’t invent his way out of a problem, and he’d met a surprising number of them.

Tony frowned, eyes liquid, and cast around as though looking for a more satisfying answer to give him. “I don’t have a workshop,” he said.

“But do you think you could? If we found you the tools?” Steve asked.

Tony laid a hand on Steve’s forearm. “I don't think you understand," he said. "I don't have a workshop because I _can't_ have one. It's not allowed." He stepped back as the confusion spread across Steve's face. "You won't allow it."

 

 

 

"You're even more pathetic than I would have guessed," Steve said. He kept his hands at his sides, having learned the hard way that the field surrounding the bars in the SHIELD cell block were not a pleasant thing to touch. Tony was sitting cross-legged on the floor, laptop at his left, coffee at his right, pen in his hand.

“Mm hmm," Tony said, pinching the cap of his pen between his teeth. It was just the two of them, and though Steve had lost no enthusiasm for letting Tony know exactly what he thought of him, Tony really didn't have much to say in response. This was nothing new, at least. Though the Steve he knew wasn't quite so vicious in his wording, the way he looked at him, the look on his face after he'd learned that Tony had lied to him, spoke well enough for him. Tony had informed him, with calm, measured words, that he had very little patience for being told things he already knew. That, at least, had left Steve speechless, if just for a moment, and it had taken everything in Tony to tamp down the bitter laugh that had bubbled up in his throat. His stunned silence hadn't lasted long, and the litany of insults had continued undeterred since.

Tony glanced at his phone and read the time. The Avengers would be finishing their cleanup of the street soon, if they hadn't already. He scribbled quickly on the back of a receipt he'd dug out of his pocket, checking his math, re-checking. This Steve could be from any of a million worlds, but this Steve wasn't just from any world, he was from _one_ world, and that one world was out there, somewhere, if only he could find it. "Would you stop pacing?"

"Come make me," Steve spat. Not exactly the cleverest of comebacks, but the vitriol of his words sold the sentiment well enough. "I'll even you up," he promised. That, Tony was sure he would make good on, if given the chance. The cut on his neck had needed three stitches, and had bled his shirt and tie to ruin. The entire left half of his face was bruised and swollen from where he'd bashed Tony into the concrete before Carol had thrown Steve off of him. Another moment, and he probably would have evened him up quite nicely. Tony sighed and readjusted the scanner on the table to where it could more easily read the whole length of Steve's cell, whether he was pacing or not.

The scanner was humming quietly, searching. A mess of wires settled on the floor at his feet, connecting Tony's laptop to the inter-dimensional scanner, which he'd jury rigged from one of the Avenger's old teleportation devices. It was a slap-dash job, put together as soon as Tony had stopped bleeding, and it showed. Their one saving grace was, hilariously, that they had dealt with alternate worlds before. His Steve would have hated to know that Tony’s efforts in the Illuminati were helping him save Steve now, but at least he would use less childish language to let Tony know it.

  
The screen of his laptop was black; the only indication that the machine was working at all was the slight dimming of the lights when he'd fired it up. He had no way of knowing where his Steve was, but he assumed that he might find him wherever this other Steve was not. With nothing better to go on, he'd rigged the scanner to read this Steve's energy signature, and was search for a world that matched minus one steve-shaped point in the universe’s data. He was, essentially, attempting to trace a call, with the unfortunate side effect that in order to do that, this Steve needed to stay on the line.

"You're a coward," Steve said. Tony tried to remember the last time his Steve had spoken to him with such bile. Not so long ago as he would have liked, if he was being honest with himself. "You worthless bastard, let me out of here."

Tony hummed again, barely an acknowledgement, and clicked his pen. There was nothing he could do now but wait.

 

 

Tony led him to the kitchen. The coffee maker was running, hissing out its last breath of steam as it finished brewing. Tony offered Steve a cup, and fixed it how it liked it without having to ask. Steve settled on a stool at the bar, and Tony hopped up to sit directly on the counter next to him.

He listened as Tony explained his situation. The matter of fact ease with which Tony told him of his imprisonment in the tower, deprived of contact save for the infrequent visits from his universe’s Steve, a man who’s treatment of him was enough that even the sight of Steve set him on edge.  
He didn’t say how long this had been going on, but when Steve lifted his cup to his lips Tony’s rattled against the counter, masking the horror at the flinch under apology, and Steve decided that it had been simply: long enough.  
By the end of it, Steve barely noticed how tightly he was holding his cup, and only just managed to keep from shattering it as he set the empty thing on the counter, as slowly and gently as he could. When Tony offered to refill it, Steve clenched his teeth and tried not to stare at the spiderweb of scars, the broken fingers not quite evenly set.

Steve dropped his hands to his side, mind made up. “It’s all right. My people will find us.”

“Us?” Tony asked.

“You’re coming with me,” Steve said firmly. “If you want.”

He put a hand on Tony’s shoulder, squeezed, and the simple point of contact seemed to shatter his reserve. Tony practically threw himself at him, balling his fists in the back of Steve’s shirt, burying his face in Steve’s shoulder. “I’d like that,” he said, muffled in the fabric of Steve’s shirt. Steve’s gut twisted at the relief in Tony’s voice. Steve cautiously wrapped his arms around him. No way in hell was he leaving him here.

“All right then,” Steve said.

 

 

 

The computer chirped once, and the screen lit up, a string of numbers scrolling rapidly as it began to vet the scanners newest hit. Tony waited, and when the scrolling stopped - 99.83% certainty, probable origin identified - he let out a little sigh of relief. Steve was less happy, shouting and putting a three inch hole in the concrete wall of the cell. Tony twisted to fire up the secondary program, searching for a little bit of their Earth within the other world, searching for Steve. He glanced idly at the other Steve, wondering how many punches it would take for him to learn that the field around the bars lies six inches beneath the walls and floor, too.

The speakers fritzed static for a moment, and Tony waited for them to level out, tapping an impatient rhythm on his thigh before finally calling Steve's name.

A pause followed, and then Steve's voice, tinny and distant, but there: "Iron Man."

Iron Man, not Tony. His formality drained some of Tony's enthusiasm, but at least he'd managed to find him. He cleared his throat. Right. He could keep things professional. "I'm going to bring you through," Tony said.

"Wait," Steve said, "Ther—tssssk—wo of us." The radio static momentarily drowned him out.

"Come again?" Tony asked.

"Two," Steve repeated. "Bring...both through..."

Tony hesitated. He glanced at the other Steve, the one in the cell, but he had stopped to listen as well. The expression on his face was unreadable, but his fists were clenched, bloodied from his attempts to escape.

"Are you sure?" Tony asked. He wasn't quite sure how to phase his question, so he settled on blunt and direct. "This version of you is batshit, Steve."

"So I've heard," Steve said, which didn't really clear up any of Tony's questions. Then: "I'm sure. Bring us through."

 

 

Steve closed his eyes as the tug of Tony's machine latching onto him buzzed through his insides. The rush was disorienting, and he felt the other Tony reach out to steady himself on Steve's shoulder as the ground fell out beneath them. Steve's stomach swooped, but they never began to fall, no gravity to pull them down, no up or down at all. Brilliant flashes of light danced across his vision.

  
Slowly, things came back into focus, as though emerging from a dark pool. Tony was kneeling next to one of his machines, but his eyes were fixed on Steve, watching carefully as he faded back into their reality. Steve felt the ground beneath him again, and he sucked in a sharp breath as his Tony came fully into focus. He looked terrible. A mottled purple bruise spread from his temple to his jaw, swollen and fresh. He was wearing a SHIELD issued sweatshirt, plain gray, and the collar was low enough to show the edge of a thick white bandage on his neck.

"Jesus, Tony," the words slipped out before he could think better of them. Tony looked like hell. His gaze shifted to the man in the cell. It had to be him. He met his eyes, hardened, cold. The other Steve grinned.

A searing jolt tore through him, his veins alight; his skin felt alive with electricity, his heart hammering, blood singing in his ears. Behind him someone laughed, _Tony laughed_ and he tilted his head just enough to see Tony holding his artificial heart in his hand. The prongs on the internal core of the arc reactors sparked with blue energy, spitting fire. Steve's vision tunneled as Tony gave him another charming smile.

"Thanks for the ride," he said, and Steve's world went sideways.

 

 

Shit shit shit.

Tony dove for the control panel, but he was too late. The other Tony mashed the emergency release button, stepping over Steve where he'd slumped on the floor. Tony stumbled and changed directions. There was an intercom on the door that led to the end of the cell block. He lunged for it and mashed the button. The speaker crackled to life, and Tony opened his mouth to shout.

A hand wrapped around his throat, dragging him back. He choked and kicked his legs as he was lifted off the floor, struggling for air. He could feel the hot tear of his stitches pulling as his grip tightened.

"I promised I'd even you up," Steve crooned into his ear, hot breath on his cheek. Tony shivered.

 

 

 

Steve's nerves were on fire, but there was very little that could put him down for long. He groaned, clenched and relaxed his fists, willing his muscles to work again. Someone was speaking, and it took him an embarrassingly long time to understand why it sounded so much like his own voice.

Tilting his head was incredibly difficult, cheek scraping painfully against the metal grated floor. His muscles refused to respond. It was all he could do to lift his chin, straining to see. No sooner had he managed to turn than his head was pressed back down into the floor, the heavy weight of a boot pinning him in place. Tony clucked his tongue.

No. Not Tony. Steve grit his teeth and forced his eyes to focus. He could see the other Steve across the room, his hand at Tony's throat. He leaned in close to his ear, speaking in a low tone, so that only Tony could hear. By the look on his face, he was more focused on his struggle to breathe than any of the words being spoken to him. Tony looked a little bit like when his old artificial heart started to falter, red in the face, white knuckled where he scrabbled at the other Steve's wrist.

"Let..." the word came out cautiously, throat remembering itself, voice coming back to him, "Let him go," he said.

The other Steve tilted his head. He glanced at Steve only out of the corner of his eye, considered him for a moment, then tightened his grip. Tony made a choked noise and lifted his chin, as though leaning his head far enough back would release the pressure on his throat. A thin runnel of blood trickled down the other Steve's wrist as the bandage on Tony's throat colored, white to pink to red. Steve tensed, and from the corner of his eye he could see the other world's Tony watching the other Steve with mild interest, curious where this would lead them.

Steve's rage boiled up in his chest, in his throat, threatening to overwhelm him. Above him, the boot lifted from his temple. A brief, satisfying flash of panic sparked across the other Tony's face as Steve forced himself to his knees, damn his protesting arms, damn the weakness in his muscles. The other Tony plunged the prongs of his arc reactor into Steve's shoulder blade. Electricity coursing through him, heart stuttering, skipping, breath leaving his lungs in a terrible rush, Steve kept his head up, _forced_ his head up, and met the other Steve's gaze. He grinned at him, a wicked, ugly grin, and kissed Tony, his Tony, on his breathless lips.

What a pair they each made. The other Steve, with his Tony; the other Tony, and him.

Steve blacked out.

 

 

 

Tony's head was pounding. Hot spikes of pain radiated from his cheekbone, and even opening his eyes was enough to freshen the ache. The other Steve had kept his promise, and he could barely open his eye a fraction. The floor was cool against his skin, and he wondered idly as he eased away from it whether it would be enough to keep the swelling down.

He pushed himself up by degrees, as slow as he dared and still clenching his teeth against the head rush as he finally righted himself. He blinked, and the SHIELD issue sweatsuit came into focus before the rest of him did. There the other Steve was, still behind bars. Where...? He glanced around, but the room was empty. His ears were ringing. His throat burned. Across the room, the other Steve was, he assumed, back to insulting him. Tony groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face, and the other Steve's attention snapped to him.

"God damn it, Tony," he said. His hands were balled into fists at his sides to help resist the urge to clutch at the bars of the cell. "Let me out."

"Huh," Tony said. He gingerly touched his throat, and his fingertips came back red. Not a dream, then. So how had he ended up back in his cell? He fixed the cell with a perplexed look, while Steve glowered at him from within. After a moment's pause, processing, it clicked. Ah. This was his Steve, after all.

"Sorry," he murmured, and stumbled toward the door release. Steve jerked the cell door open the moment the field died down.

"It's been hours," he snapped. "They're long gone by now."

Tony nodded, pinched the bridge of his nose. He was swaying slightly, maybe blood loss, or the room was swimming. He scanned the pile of tech he'd left on the floor and noted what was missing: the laptop and the scanner were missing. They'd left the power source behind, probably too unwieldy to drag along with them, but the arc reactor in the other man's chest would do well enough. Outside, the halls were quiet. Tony doubted they left through the door; surely that would have drawn the attention of at least a few SHIELD agents. He was surprised that no one had been watching them through the security feeds. Tony glanced up to find the camera seemingly unbroken, and wondered whether the other Tony had somehow tampered with the cameras.

Once Steve had cleared the edge of the cell he stopped. Without anywhere to go, now that the other world's Steve and Tony were gone, he paced back and forth across the room. Tony let him go for a moment, sighed.

"Are you all right?" Tony asked.

That seemed to catch Steve off guard. He paused, nodded tersely, and said nothing else. Tony stooped down next to the left-overs of his teleporter and dug his cellphone from the pile. He shot off a quick text to Carol, to let her know what had happened, and then, after briefly considering how much he wanted to rile her, one to Maria Hill, with nothing more than the words "You're losing your edge," no explanation, just to get her goat. That made him feel a little better, and Tony set it to vibrate and tucked the phone into his back pocket.

"Are you?"

"What?" Tony asked.

"Are you all right?" Steve asked.

Tony hesitated, unsure what to do with Steve's sudden concern for his well being. He hedged with a small shrug. His throat hurt like hell. His face, he was sure, looked a lot worse than it felt, which was not great to begin. This was unexpected, though, considering that he'd earned his lumps well enough. It was Tony not watching Steve's back that got them into this mess in the first place.

"It could be worse," Tony said.

Steve didn't like that answer (he very rarely did, when he was asking after Tony's injuries), but he let him off the hook anyway. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Steve patted his hip before realizing that he was still dressed in the other Steve's SHIELD-issue detention wear. No pockets. No communicator. Tony wordlessly held out his cellphone, an offering. Steve took it but didn't immediately use it.

  
“Did he,” Steve stopped, and for a moment Tony didn’t think he would continue. He stared down at the phone like he was going to set it on fire, and Tony thought that would be the end of that through.

  
“Hm?” Tony prompted, because he was curious, because he never learned. Steve’s eyes snapped up to Tony, and he saw the moment he steeled himself in the look in his eye.

  
“Did he touch you,” he asked. It was more of a demand than a question, but the gravity of the question was enough that Tony knew that a glib answer about the state of his face would be the wrong answer.

  
Still, it took Tony’s sluggish mind a moment to parse through what he was asking. What it struck him, Tony shook his head hard enough that a lance of pain shot through his neck.

  
“No!” he said vehemently. “I mean,” Tony moved his hand from his neck to his lip, an afterthought, as an odd mix of disgust and shame settled in his stomach. It was… and uncomfortably familiar friend.  
“I’m fine.” Tony settled on. He moved his hand back to his neck, just for something to do, and pressed down. To stop the blood. And a bit of a distraction, too. Steve was quiet for an uncomfortably long moment, long enough that, when he finally spoke, Tony wondered if he’d begun to chant his mantra of leave it alone out loud.

"I think," Steve said. Tony tensed, unsure what he was going to say. "I owe you an apology."

Oh. Tony hadn't expected that at all.

Steve had made it perfectly clear that he didn't trust him, and that he expected nothing but professionalism from him while they worked together. Tony had long since accepted that he may never forgive him, but never once had Steve even asked for an apology. Maybe he recognized that it wasn't personal, Tony's reasoning behind lying to him, though it had felt very personal anyway. Maybe he'd worried that Tony would refuse. A quiet, defeated part of him had assumed that maybe Steve hadn't expected an apology, because he had no forgiveness to lend to one.

Steve was staring at him expectantly, chin tilted up a bit defiantly, and Tony realized with a rush that he'd been gaping at Steve in stricken silence. He cleared his throat quickly and shook his head, gently this time, mindful of the cut. He wanted to tell Steve that he had nothing to apologize for, but instead, before he could stop himself, he blurted incredulously: "Why?"

 

Oddly, Steve seemed to have expected the question.

"That other Tony, he lied so easily," he said. "Like it was nothing to him. He knew exactly what to say, and he wanted it to hurt."

"That's not your fault—" Tony said.

"No—That's not why I'm sorry," Steve said. "I'm sorry, because up until today, I'd thought the same thing of you."

"Oh," Tony said, feeling a little twist in his gut at the words. He'd guessed, from the way that Steve was acting around him, but to hear it aloud, directly from Steve's lips, was much harder to bear.

"I was wrong. I was angry that you lied to me, and I assumed the worst of you. I—" he paused then, and raked his fingers through his hair again, making a disheveled mess of the locks. "I'm not good at this," Steve said lamely.

"No, it's...fine," Tony said.

"Listen, I—"

"Do you want to get bagels," Tony cut him off. The phone was buzzing madly in Steve’s hands, both of them could hear it, but Tony let it buzz. His grip on this moment was too tenuous, one distraction, and he would let it slip. He didn't give himself long enough to regret the question, or to look too deeply into Steve's stunned silence. "I know you missed lunch."

Steve glanced at the phone in his hand.

"Let’s get this handled," Steve said. "You can buy me dinner, instead. It’s been too long since we’ve talked."


End file.
